Where my mouth is and should not have been
by ImagineYourself64
Summary: Wincest. Growing up, money was tight, and Dean had to do what he could. "You know, it's crazy how much guys are willing to pay to get off. How easy it is to steal from people who are drunk and alone. And they give more for a pretty face." But it's all for Sam, and it always has been. After all, what else do they have besides each other?


A/N: This is partially inspired by the song "Only Love" by Anthony Green ft. Nate Ruess, and partially inspired by my own headcanon that when things were tight, Dean would sell himself for money, and that the Winchesters are forever *cries in corner*.  
Warnings: underage, prostitution, incest (obviously)

* * *

"I should only be gone for a couple of days," John says, looking down at his boys through the dusty air of the motel room he's leaving them in.

"You're sure we can't come with you?" Sam's eyes are big and he's got his best puppy face on, but John's not having any of it. He stoops down and wraps his youngest son in an embrace.

"Not this time." When he straightens, he put a hand on Dean's shoulder and gives him a tight smile. "There's some money on the counter, and I'll call—"

"Every night. We know, Dad, it's not like this is the first time you've ever left us alone." Dean's tone is sharp, but his eyes betray his worry. The boy is only ten, but John knows he's had to grow up fast in this life they've been living. There's a hard set to his young jaw already and—not for the first time—John feels a twinge in his gut. But it's not the time to be thinking about that.

"Keep your brother safe," he tells Dean, hugging him tightly before turning to leave, picking his keys up from beside the little fridge in the corner of the room and heading out the door, glancing over his shoulder at his sons as he locks it behind him.

Back inside the room, Dean frowns for a moment and clenches his jaw. Sam tugs on his arm. "What do you wanna do now?" the eldest asks, taking a measured breath and turning to the boy beside him. Sam just shrugs so Dean sighs gently and moves to turn on the TV, glad when a rerun of some old black and white show comes on, softly pouring sound and light into the quiet room. It's nighttime already, so Dean climbs into one of the beds, sitting against the headboard to see the TV. After a moment of consideration, Sam joins him, leaning against Dean's thin chest and pulling his brother's arm around him.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Sam asks.

And just like every other of the hundreds of times his brother has asked that, Dean huffs out a breath, plants a kiss on top of Sam's head, and mutters, "He always is, Sammy."

. . . . .

Dean's not sure when it truly started, or if it ever really started at all. It's all a bit surreal and sometimes Dean thinks that any moment he's going to wake up and be ten again instead of sixteen and blowing some creepy guy in an alley in the middle of the night. It's not the first time, nor will it be the last time, he suspects. But it's the quickest way he knows to get some cash, and as soon as he gets that, he can head to the store, hide his shame under a hoodie, and pick up something for his brother to eat.

It's been six days since John said he'd be back in two. Each night he calls and says it'll just be one more day. It'll just be one more week. Something else came up, will you boys be alright for a little longer?

Every time his father leaves, it's like a record playing on repeat. Dean thinks he might as well just say, "I'll be back sometime, maybe," instead of giving his sons that little bit of hope and then crushing it almost instantly. Dean just wishes he could do something, say something, but if he ever touches a toe out of line, he knows John will only scream and shout and say it's his fucking job and Dean needs to deal with it because he's almost a man already.

The guy in front of him makes a noise and says a few words that allow Dean to back off and move his face out of the way of this asshole's spunk. Dean takes his money, wipes his mouth, and leaves before the guy can even buckle his belt. He's disgusted with the man—and disgusted with himself—but he pushes away his feelings deep into the back of his mind and focuses on the closest 24-hour-mini-mart where he can grab a few items before making his way back down the street to the motel he and Sam are currently holed up in.

The night is chilly and Dean pulls his hood a little tighter over his head as a police cruiser passes by in the quiet street. He holds his bags in one hand, the other shoved into his pocket and clutching a switchblade that John had given him years ago.

As he walks by the "receptionist", who is currently slumped over the counter at the front of the motel, Dean thinks about waking the guy up to give him the next night's rent. He decides to let it be for now and slips past unnoticed, pulling out a key from his back pocket and noiselessly entering his room. The first thing he looks for is Sam, who is just a lump in one of the beds, his form haloed by the gentle light of the TV they had left on when going to sleep earlier. Dean had left it on still when he snuck out after his brother was asleep, and he's grateful for the glow in the dimness.

He sets the bags on the counter and toes his shoes off by the door before heading towards the bathroom, peeling away his hoodie as he goes. The fluorescent light in the bathroom flickers slightly as Dean brushes his teeth and washes away the awful taste in his mouth, wishing he could wash away the shame in his blood. He splashes water on his face and glances in the mirror, dismayed by the dark circles around his eyes that he knows his brother will comment on in the morning.

Shutting off the light, Dean makes his way to the bed, crawling into one side and feeling his mouth twitch in a smile when Sam automatically rolls towards him. He puts an arm around his brother, closing his exhausted eyes, hoping—not praying—that maybe someday things will be better for the two of them.

. . . . .

Dean wakes slowly in the morning, sunlight filtering in through the window beside the door. Sam's face is right in front of his, a small smile on the boy's face underneath his bright hazel eyes. He places a light kiss on that young, soft mouth, and mumbles a greeting. A yawn tears through his body as he swings a leg over Sam's, and his brother giggles.

"Wassofunny?" he mutters, voice heavy with sleep.

Sam's cheeks fill with color and he bites his lip. "Nothing," he whispers, eyes not meeting Dean's.

The elder brother narrows his gaze and rests his hand on Sam's hip, rubbing his thumb lightly on the bared patch of skin where Sam's shirt has ridden up from his underwear. His brother shudders slightly under his touch. Dean glances down and smirks. He pushes a kiss against Sam's lips and hums when his brother returns with a tongue against the seam of his mouth. Dean slides his hand down Sam's thigh and rearranges their legs so that Sam's is on top of his, heel at the back of his knee.

Dean's hand heads back up his brother's body to tangle in his sleep mussed hair and tilt his head for a better kiss, letting his tongue brush against Sam's. The boy lets out a soft gasp as his hips stutter into movement, searching in the small space between their bodies.

"Dean…" Sam breathes, his hands grappling for purchase on Dean's head to hold him in a kiss.

Dean obliges and trails his hand across Sam's ribs and down to cup his brother's straining erection, feeling a tightness in his chest when Sam moans softly. "It's okay, Sammy. I've got you," he tells his brother softly, moving his hand teasingly. He ravishes Sam's mouth in a firm, but careful kiss, loving the taste of his brother's tongue against his. Slipping his hand beneath Sam's underwear, he strokes the younger boy's dick in a loose fist, using the little beads of precome at the tip to ease the rhythm.

Sam lets out a steady stream of little noises that get swallowed up by Dean's mouth. His hips roll into his brother's hand as he urges Dean to stroke him faster and harder. Of course the elder Winchester can never say no his little brother, and it's not much longer before the rhythm is lost and Sam is letting out a loud moan, his face the picture of pleasure as his orgasm hits. As he's calming down, Dean palms over his own bulge, barely needing any friction before he's coming in his pants like the horny teenager he is.

He peppers Sam's lax mouth with kisses and soft praise, wrapping his arms around his brother and holding him close. Sam eventually tucks his head under Dean's chin, and the older boy has a fleeting thought about the countless men in alleys and dark corners. He forces it away, determined to forget, and whispers into Sam's hair.

"Love you, baby boy."

. . . . .

It's almost a year later that Dean finds himself crouched low on the porch of an old ratty house on the outskirts of a little town in Iowa. John is mirroring his position beside the door and Sam is behind Dean, all three armed with sharp machetes. Making a motion with two fingers, John signals to his sons and waits for them to nod before quietly moving into a defensive position and pushing open the door, wincing when it creaks softly.

It's nearly sunrise, but it's still dark enough that the inside of the house is almost completely black. Dean slips inside after his father, glancing back to make sure Sammy is close. They're hunting a nest of vampires, four maybe five, and they've been watching the house all night, waiting for the vamps to head to bed. Dean would have rather had Sam stay behind, but his brother had pulled out his best puppy dog face and neither Dean nor their father could say no. So now Dean is constantly looking out for his brother's shadowed form behind him.

He nearly runs into John when the older man stops, glancing around a corner before turning back to Dean and holding up four fingers. Dean nods and nudges his brother with his elbow as they move along the wall and into the room ahead, where four sleeping vampires are waiting for them.

One is lounging on a couch, arm hanging off the side. Two are beside each other on a mattress on the floor, and the last is slumped over a table in the middle, a few bottles lying around him. John tugs Dean's arm to get him around to the mattress and he points Sam to the one at the table. They each take up a good position to chop the vamps' heads off, and wait for John to count down.

_Three… _

_Two… _

The vamp at the table lifts his head up abruptly, a noise falling from his mouth.

"NOW!" John shouts, and all three swing, the two vampires on the mattress instantly dead, but the vamp Sam is near moves fast and dodges the blade, kicking back his chair and grabbing a handful of the boy's shirt.

Dean screams his brother's name as Sam is tossed through the air and lands with a heavy thump against a wall. By then, the vampire on the couch is up and looking around wildly. John is closer to the couch and goes after that one first, spinning around and catching his neck a little too high, but still managing to sever enough to kill him. Meanwhile, Dean jumps towards the table, slashing at the creature with little finesse. He gets the vamp across the chest, but it's John that slices right through his spine. Dean stills for a moment as the head falls away to the floor, body soon following.

Then Dean runs to his brother. His blade drops from his hand as his knees give out and he's cradling Sam's head, panic sharp in his heart. "Sam. Sammy, talk to me," he pleads. There's wetness in the boy's hair and Dean's hand is black with blood in the dimness when he pulls it away.

John crouches beside him, putting fingers on his youngest son's neck and sighing in relief. "He's alive."

"He's hurt, Dad," Dean says, his voice soft with the fear tearing at his chest. John takes his hands away from Sam and picks the boy up, nodding his head towards where Dean's weapon is lying.

"Come on, we need to get him back to the room." His father starts walking and Dean hurries to his feet to follow.

"We need to get him to a hospital!" Dean protests as they move outside and head to the Impala. "You shouldn't have let him come in the first place." John ignores him and places his unconscious son in the backseat. Dean gets in on the other side and slides off his jacket to ball up and place under Sam's head on his lap. His fingers are bloody and he brushes the hair back from Sam's temple, quietly worrying for the entire ride back to the familiar kind of dingy motel they're staying in.

"Bring the first aid in from the trunk," John says, parking the car somewhat haphazardly and lifting Sam up again to carry inside. Dean's already moving, though, and follows at his father's heels with the kit in hand. He stands idly by, fidgeting slightly as John cleans the blood from his son's hair and wraps his head tightly before probing the rest of his body for any injuries. When he's finished, Dean fits Sam under the covers of one of the beds and sits beside him.

"He'll be fine. He's just got some bruises and that cut on his head, but he should wake up soon." John clasps Dean's shoulder.

"We still shouldn't have brought him," Dean mutters.

His father sighs. "Let it go, it's too late now."

"You're not even bothered by this."

John gives him a hard look and says, "He's my son," like that should answer every question.

Dean just drops his gaze and takes off his shoes, slipping onto the bed beside his brother and waiting for his father to turn the lights off before slotting his body beside Sam's, holding the boy's limp hand.

. . . . .

There's something inherently annoying with the fact that even though Dean is eighteen, he's still unable to get into pool bars where he can hustle for some change. Instead, he has to keep picking up drunk guys and pickpocketing boisterous women as they leave bars in the middle of the night. That's how he finds himself in the dark corner of a bar parking lot at almost three in the morning with a big, fairly intoxicated man pushing him against a wall.

"Look, I fucking told you, it's a blow job or you go find someone else," Dean spits out through clenched teeth, trying not to breathe in the alcohol tainted air being blown in his face.

"And I told you, fucking punk, a blow job's not worth your price." The guy's eyes are beady and bloodshot and Dean really wishes he could be more selective about the people he has to deal with.

His hand is in his pocket, where it's been thumbing at the handle of his switchblade for the past couple of minutes, and Dean fits it comfortably in his palm. "Get your fucking hands off of me," he says threateningly.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll cut your fucking dick off."

The guy knocks his elbow into Dean's jaw. "Yeah right. You're nothing but a cheap-ass punk piece of shi—AGH!" he breaks off in a scream as the knife slices into his thigh. He jumps away and Dean immediately moves back into a fighting stance.

"I told you," Dean tuts, his face twisting into a disgusted sort of smirk.

"You fucking shit!"

"Great vocabulary. Now get the fuck out of here, or I'll stab you again. Somewhere it hurts more." The teen's eyes glance down quickly at the guy's crotch.

"Fuck you!" he screams, but he's backing away with a heavy limp.

Dean waits until he's out of sight before putting his knife away and quickly taking the cash from the wallet he nabbed off the guy. It's only a couple hundred, but it's something. He tosses the wallet to the ground, turning up his collar and shoving his hands deep into his father's leather jacket. It probably isn't the best thing to wear while he's out making rounds, but it's warm, and the night is near freezing as he makes his way back towards the current motel the Winchesters are residing in.

John is out for the next couple of days, some "important hunter business" that he couldn't bring the boys along for. Dean feels like his father is gone more than ever in the past few years, but he has no say in it, and bitterly he's grateful because it gives him more time to sneak out and gather money. He's saving up for Sam, hoping that when Sam turns eighteen, maybe they can leave this shitty life they're living and find something better. It's an unrealistic dream, but it's about the only thing Dean has to believe in.

Dean has Sam and Sam has Dean. That's how it's always been, and always will be. And Dean would give just about anything for that.

When he gets back to the motel, Sam's awake, sitting on the bed and waiting for him. As he steps in, Sam jumps to the floor and throws his gangly arms around Dean's neck.

"Hey Sammy," Dean mutters, his arms automatically fitting around the boy's back and holding him tightly.

Sam pulls away after a moment, though. "Where were you? I woke up and you were gone," he says with worried eyes.

"Sorry, kid, I just went for a walk. Didn't wanna wake you up," Dean replies with a tight smile.

His brother frowns and narrows his gaze. "Do walks normally take over an hour?"

"Well, I just—"

"Dean, you're hiding something. What's wrong? And what happened to your face?" Sam reaches up to touch the sore spot on Dean's jaw where the guy had gotten him.

"I'm not hiding anything!" the older brother protests, turning his face away slightly.

"You're lying. I can tell."

Dean feels a flash of shame and frustration. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sam cuts in before anything comes out.

"Just tell me what's going on. This isn't the first time and I know it. Sometimes I wake up and you're not there, but I think it's a dream because when I wake up again, you are. Whatever it is, you can tell me, Dean." Sam's eyes are soft and his voice is gentle, but Dean turns away.

Without a word, the elder boy leaves, ignoring his brother's call as he shuts the door behind him, breaking into a run and ducking in the nearest alley in the hopes that Sam won't come after him.

Dean doesn't know how long he walks. He moves on autopilot through the dim streets, lit only by the yellow streetlamps that reflect in the puddles on the sidewalks. He thinks about Sam. He thinks about their father. He wishes he didn't have to think about how to hide from his brother that he wants them to run away together. It's not that he doesn't trust Sam, he just doesn't want the kid to worry about him more.

Eventually, his feet start to ache and he turns back. He passes a homeless man and fishes a random bill from his pocket where his earnings of the night are still stashed. He sets it on the man's lap, startling him from sleep, but doesn't say a word and continues walking with his head bowed.

Maybe one good deed won't undo all that he's done, but saving people doesn't always have to do with creatures of the night.

When Dean gets back to their room, Sam is sitting on the bed once again. He stands when Dean enters, but he doesn't move towards his brother. There's a look of hesitation on the younger brother's face, and Dean watches him for a moment before he shucks off his jacket and shoes.

"Dean…" Sam starts quietly. The elder boy shakes his slightly, silencing him.

"Sorry," Dean tells him, "I shouldn't have left."

"I shouldn't have pushed you."

Dean huffs a laugh. "You're my little brother, that's what you're supposed to do." A pained look crosses Sam's face and he drops his chin. Dean goes to him slowly, putting his hands on his brother's jaw and bringing their lips together gently. "Sorry," he whispers again.

"Are you gonna tell me?" Sam breathes against him.

A sad smile twitches the corner of Dean's mouth. "Later. For now…" he trails off by kissing him again. It's languid and dirty and his hands slide to Sam's hips, steering them towards the bed. They're moving slowly and, gently, Dean lays his brother down, crawling on top with a knee between his legs, the kiss never breaking. It's a soft slide of lips and tongues, hands unhurried as Dean pulls Sam's shirt up and off. Their mouths fall apart only for Dean to smile warmly and brush his lips across Sam's throat.

Dean makes his way down his brother's body, which has slowly been growing and building muscle under lightly tanned skin since John has been letting him come on more hunts. He kisses a path over Sam's abdomen, his touch riding over the boy's ribs. Dean doesn't speak; he lets his hands and mouth talk for him. He listens to the soft noises Sam makes when his tongue flicks over his nipple, and he smiles at the little jerks and shudders that rack through the body underneath him.

He's still fully clothed as he peels away Sam's boxers, freeing his straining cock, and settles between his legs. Dean licks around the head, holding down Sam's hips to keep him from thrusting up. The younger boy shivers and his dick twitches under Dean's breath.

"Turn over," Dean tells him, voice low and heavy. Sam freezes and looks at him for a moment. "I'll stop if you want me to," he adds, helping his brother flip onto his stomach. Dean runs his hands up Sam's thighs and helps him onto his knees. His fingers probe gently as the pale skin before him and Dean waits until his brother's muscles relax before he leans forward to plant light kisses on Sam's ass.

"Dean…" Sam's whisper of his name is muffled in a pillow. He makes a noise and tenses as Dean's tongue laps over his hole. When he's settled down again, the elder boy puts his mouth to good use, pressing his tongue into his brother and kneading his fingers on Sam's hips encouragingly when Sam starts to rock back into the intrusion.

Slowly, Dean adds a finger in with his tongue, creating a rhythm that has the boy breathing heavy moans. It doesn't take long until the youngest Winchester is reduced to a shaking mess, pliable under his brother. Dean reaches a hand around to pump Sam's shaft in a controlled motion. He adds another finger to push inside, curling and twisting his digits until Sam cries out. Come spills into his hand and it's enough to pull Dean over the edge, untouched.

Sam slumps, boneless, on the bed and his brother places kisses along his spine. After a moment, Dean leaves his brother in favor of the bathroom to strip out of his clothes and grab a washcloth to clean up with. He brings it back to Sam along with a clean pair of boxers and manages to rouse his brother enough to move to the other bed.

"Maybe we should fight more often," Sam mutters sleepily once he's curled into Dean's chest. "Make up sex is amazing."

Dean just chuckles and kisses his brother's hair. A frown covers his lips in the darkness, though, and he has a momentary thought that someday he might break down from all the things he's done to be shameful for.

. . . . .

When Sam is a senior in high school, about to turn eighteen, John leaves them for a few weeks at Bobby's. It's nowhere near the first time, and it's not like Sam is having any sort of ceremony into adulthood, but Dean can't help the stabs of anger inside of him. The thing that Dean is most grateful for in this situation, though, is that it only took a few words to get Bobby to make a trip to the store for beer and ingredients for Dean to make burgers the evening before his birthday.

Both Dean and Bobby say they're proud of Sam and they spend the night around the TV, watching a few classics from the eighties until Sam can feel the alcohol really kicking in and heads upstairs to the spare bedroom he and Dean have shared throughout the years. He's stripped down and almost asleep by the time Dean slips in a little while later.

As Dean's pulling off his shirt and stumbling towards the bed, Sam rolls towards him, hands out to pull him on top of the mattress. Sam giggles and kisses Dean sloppily, holding his brother against him. They settle in beside each other, Sam's arm around the older man's waist, Dean's back to his chest.

"Hey Dean," the younger brother mutters after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"You never told me what you were hiding that one time when I was fourteen and you said you would."

Dean tenses at Sam's words. "Well that's… uh…" he stutters. Sighing, he pulls away and get to his feet grumbling about how it's now or never. He fishes around in the darkness for his duffel and pulls out a wooden box that fits comfortably between the palms of his hands. When he turns back, Sam is sitting up and turning on the lamp beside him. He hands the box to his brother without a word, perching on the edge of the bed and watching him.

"What is it?" Sam asks, peering at it wearily. Slowly, he opens the box to reveal neat wads of cash piled in.

"It's about twelve grand," Dean tells him quietly.

"How did you…?" he doesn't finish the question as Dean shrugs. "Why?"

"College, an apartment, anything really." Dean looks away from his brother. "Sammy, you've got a chance to get out of this life. You're smart and young."

"Dean, you're not much older than me," Sam interrupts.

"Doesn't matter. I've got nothing ahead of me, I didn't even finish high school."

"I don't wanna go anywhere without you, though." The youngest Winchester sets aside the box and puts his hands on Dean's arms.

They sit in silence for a long moment before Dean stands and puts the box on the nightstand, turning the light back off. "We'll talk about it another time." Sam sighs heavily but lays beside him, holding him tightly as he falls asleep.

. . . . .

Dean's sitting in Bobby's kitchen, the old hunter still sleeping upstairs, his father up in North Dakota, hunting a werewolf. It's early morning, but there's a glass and a bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him already.

It's been one year to the day since Sam left, and Dean can still feel the ghost of his hands and his mouth and the angry words he shouted at their father that day. He remembers vividly the harsh goodbye and the fumble of fingers as Dean reluctantly let him go. There's been an empty place inside of Dean's chest since then that he's only been able to forget about with alcohol. He spares a thought that if Sam could see him, he'd probably punch Dean in the face.

The phone rings suddenly, making Dean jump. It's Bobby's home phone so he reaches over the table and picks it off the hook, saying a curt, "Singer," into the mouthpiece.

_"Dean?"_

His heart almost stops.

_"Dean is that you?"_

"Sam?" he breathes, though his throat is tight.

_"Yeah, Dean, it's me."_ There's relief in Sam's voice, but it just tears at Dean. _"I, uh… it's been a while."_

"Yeah, it has," Dean replies slowly.

_"How… how've you been?"_ Now he sounds hesitant, almost afraid.

"Fine."

_"Dean…"_ There's a sigh and Dean can't make a noise. _"I'm sorry—"_

"Look, Sam, this isn't really the best time…"

_"Oh, okay. I'll just… another time?"_

"Yeah." Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and they're both quiet for a few heartbeats. "Bye, Sam."

_"Bye… Dean."_

Dean hangs up the phone, hearing the unspoken _I love you_ and he does. His head drops with a sigh and he hesitates to take another sip of whiskey. There's a moment of utter silence before Bobby walks in.

"What are you doin' up so early, boy?" he asks, giving the alcohol a look. When Dean doesn't immediately answer, the old hunter adds, "And who was on the phone?"

Dean lets out a breath. "No one, it was a wrong number."

Bobby grunts. "You better get yourself to bed or grab a cup of coffee. Whiskey ain't gonna keep you up all day." He turns away to start the coffee machine to punctuate his words, but Dean doesn't miss his glance back.

. . . . .

They're in a motel room at night—like that's a new setting—and Sam is sitting at the table, a half empty bottle of hunter's helper by him, while Dean lounges on one of the beds. He's got John's journal open on his lap, searching for anything that could help lead them to their father. They've only been back together for a short time, but Dean can feel the tension rising by the day.

Dean stands, stretching out his muscles. "I'm gonna go pick up some grub, want anything?" He picks up his jacket, feeling around his pockets for his keys, but his eyes are on his brother, who doesn't answer. "Sam?"

The younger man is staring at his computer screen, but his gaze is unfocused, hands clasped by his mouth. "Do you ever think about when we were growing up? How we were before?"

Dean's frozen, staring at him with wide eyes. He's nowhere near ready, and probably won't ever be, for this conversation. "Sam…"

"Three years. What happened to forever, Dean?" He's standing now, and Dean feels unnaturally small. "What happened to the _I love you_'s and the Winchester brothers?"

"You left," Dean tries, but his voice is failing him.

"You didn't stop me."

"I wanted you to get away from Dad."

"You didn't come with me." Dean's mouth is a tight line. "And then you came back to me."

Dean sets down his jacket. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."

"Do you hate me now? Is that it? I'm your last resort now?" Sam's eyes are fiery as he slowly moves closer.

"What are you doing Sam?" Dean asks, feeling a mix of fear and tiredness creeping through his skin.

Sam lunges and pins him to the wall with his arm at Dean's throat. "What did you do to get all that money for me? I know it can't have been all from hustling."

"That's what this is about?" Dean's breath leaves him in a bitter laugh. "You're still—"

"I never used that money. I didn't know how you got it so it never felt right. It's gone now though, burnt up with Jess' body."

Dean feels a heavy stone settle in his belly. He clenches his teeth. "You're drunk."

"Like you aren't most of the time? I know you Dean, and three years don't change that fact."

"I feel like I don't know you at all, Sammy," the older brother says with venom. "You're asking me what happened to us, but I should be asking _you_. _You're_ the one who left, the one who never called except that once. You got out. You got the girl. _You_ left _me._"

"I thought you didn't want me anymore!" Sam shouts. He's breathing hard, but they're both silent until Sam suddenly lets up and moves a step back. His voice is a whisper when he says again, "I thought you didn't want me."

"I was fifteen," Dean starts softly.

Sam looks at him. "What?"

"I had the idea when I was fifteen, that I could get a job and save money and when you turned eighteen we would leave Dad. But we were always moving, so I had to figure out something better, something I could hide from Dad and… from you." He takes a breath, leaning back against the wall. "You know, it's crazy how much guys are willing to pay to get off. How easy it is to steal from people who are drunk and alone. And they give more for a pretty face."

"Dean…"

"I'm not proud, but I had to do something to get you out of this fucking life." Dean isn't looking at his brother, but he can feel Sam's eyes on him. He's expecting shock, disgust, maybe even hatred in those eyes. He's almost hoping that his brother will never want to kiss him again, not with that mouth that's sinned in so many ways. But when Sam touches his jaw and raises his face, all he sees is love and regret.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam whispers hoarsely. "I'm sorry I left you."

Dean doesn't have the chance to reply because his brother's lips are pushing against his, those big hands (when did Sam get so big?) cupping the back of his head and tilting his head to kiss him slow and deep and fill their mouths with every word neither of them have the breath to really say. Dean clings to him, relishing in the taste of his mouth, the brush of his tongue, the firm press of his mouth that he's missed so much.

It slowly graduates into something heavier and rougher and Sam is shoving him into the wall, grinding against his hips and tugging his shirt off to run his hands across the bare expanse of Dean's body. The elder brother moans softly at the insistence of his hands. All he wants is to feel Sam again, to hold him and crawl inside of his skin, get as close as they can without tearing each other apart.

Sam seems to have the same sentiment because a moment later he breaks away slightly to ask, "Bed?"

Dean answers with a nod, his throat full of words he wishes he could say but his breath is caught by the brightness of Sam's eyes. They make their way backwards and Dean manages to unbutton Sam's flannel along the way to toss away, hands grasping at his brother's strong shoulders as his back hits the mattress. Sam fumbles with Dean's jeans until he gets them undone and pulls them off, his own soon following.

"Did any of them ever fuck you?" Sam asks suddenly, watching his brother.

Dean shakes his head. "No. No one but you…"

The younger Winchester fixes him with a bruising kiss before pulling away and tonguing at his neck. Sam licks and kisses and bites his way across Dean's shoulder and down his chest, going far enough to mouth at the hard cock still covered by his boxers. Dean moans with abandon, one hand fisted in the sheets of the bed and the other trying to touch any part of Sam that he can reach. He barely notices when the offending fabric is gone and Sam is licking around his head, holding on tightly to his bare thighs.

He's getting close already as his brother's tongue moves down his shaft. Dean wishes he could hold out longer, but _fuck_ Sammy's mouth is so hot and his hands are just _everywhere_. Dean's burning, he must be on fire. It's licking inside his veins and pouring over his skin and it feels so fucking right. He tugs at the handful of Sam's hair that he must have grabbed onto at some point and he arches up as he comes into that perfect mouth.

The flames ebb away, but his skin still feels hot as Sam crawls over him to kiss him, dirty and hard. "Do you have any lube?" the younger man asks, his voice rough in Dean's ears.

"Duffel, inside pocket," Dean replies, still too high strung to have the decency to blush. He hasn't fucked anyone in months, but he can't help himself sometimes to slip a couple of fingers in and pretend for a few minutes that they're Sam's. He lays quietly as his brother rummages for the little bottle before returning to him with a gentler sort of kiss, one that's not as rushed, that promises good things.

Sam kisses him, touching him lightly on his sides and his legs until he can feel the mood shift and his blood starts rushing down again. Sam's hands spread his legs, lips touching Dean's stomach, Dean's hips, even as he spreads lube over his fingers and pushes one into his brother. He keeps the motion slow and only picks up the pace when the older man huskily tells him to add another digit. The heat is picking up again, but it's a pleasant burn that Dean now feels, spreading like honey over him.

He has a steady stream of soft moans and pants leaving his throat and they're only swallowed up after Sam has added a third finger and is leaning up to kiss him before slicking himself up. Sam guides his brother's legs around his hips as he starts to push in, holding himself up with his hands on the bed as Dean wraps his arms around his neck, holding him in a kiss. It's a slow rhythm that Sam builds, having to keep stopping so that the raw feeling of Dean doesn't overwhelm him.

With every breath he takes, Dean encourages Sam, be it by the wanton sounds leaving his lips or the whispers of words he hasn't said in years. It's like a recording of Dean's voice is playing over and over in Sam's ears, and he never wants it to end. They gasp and breathe words of love and apologies and promises, each one emphasized with the melding of lips and tongues and the drag of skin and sweat. It's an old pattern they've fallen into, one that Dean is grateful they haven't forgotten. Dean comes again with Sam's hand wrapped around him, and Sam follows soon after, his arms bracketed around Dean's head, foreheads together as they breathe each other's air.

Eventually, Sam slips out of him, and he picks up one of their shirts from the floor to help clean up a bit before they both pull the covers over them and lay with tangled legs meeting eyes. Dean kisses him and a slow smile spreads over his face.

Dean's stomach suddenly grumbles.

Sam looks surprised for a moment before he laughs, burying his face in the pillow, his sides shaking.

"Dude, I'm hungry! I was gonna get dinner before you decided to fuck me!" Dean protests, but he's smiling broadly.

"Let's go out later," Sam tells him when he's calmed down a bit. He plants a kiss on the corner of Dean's mouth.

"Fine, but we go somewhere that's got pie."

"Sometimes I think you love pie more than me." Sam blinks, seemingly serious.

Dean just punches him playfully in the arm and brings his mouth close for a passionate kiss. "I'll always love you more, Sammy."


End file.
